


Crush with Eyeliner

by AlexRoyale



Category: True Detective
Genre: Bathtubs, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Lingerie, M/M, Makeup, all kinds of fluff my lord, sugar plum redneck salted caramel overdose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexRoyale/pseuds/AlexRoyale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The catalyst is innocent enough.</p><p>Marty drinks a little at the end of November. Winter sharpens his appetite for food, and drink, and joy in a way he’s come to recognize. As he approaches mid-autumn in his life, with some changes he accepts and others he doesn’t, Marty knows there are things he wants that he can’t name.</p><p>Rust knows this. Knows Marty like the moon does the tides. Rust always knows what Marty wants before Marty knows what Marty wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crush with Eyeliner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackeyedblonde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/gifts).



The catalyst is innocent enough.

Marty drinks a little at the end of November. Winter sharpens his appetite for food, and drink, and joy in a way he’s come to recognize. As he approaches mid-autumn in his life, with some changes he accepts and others he doesn’t, Marty knows there are things he wants that he can’t name.

Rust knows this. Knows Marty like the moon does the tides. Rust always knows what Marty wants _before_ Marty knows what Marty wants.

Marty’s several cups into Rust’s apple cider. Rust won’t ever reveal how he makes it like he does, and while Marty could just ask he never does.

In lieu of asking drink ingredients, Marty leans back against the couch with his socked feet on the coffee table and looks at the man beside him. Rust both watches and ignores the news. Marty stares at him until Rust looks his way, then Marty announces, “Y’know, your eyes are somethin’ else.”

Rust’s left shoulder brushes Marty’s as he shrugs, “Nothin’ different than anyone else’s.”

“Well, bullshit, “ Marty says, and pushes himself straight. The couch fights him, plush as it is, and the cider doesn’t help. The couch is a trade-up from the lumpy, brown monstrosity Marty owned before. The new couch is dove-gray and soft as dreams. There’s room enough for two, what with the way he and Rust end up tangling together on it most times they share it.

“I was just sayin’ I like your eyes, “ Marty says. Rust nods along, no argument to be had further and lets Marty look as he pleases.

Rust hauls himself up from the couch and holds out his hand for Marty’s empty glass.

On his way into the kitchen, he hears Marty ask, “So what do you put in that cider, anyhow?”

“It’s a secret, “ Rust says, over the television.

“There any left?” Marty says.

Rust weighs Marty’s question. Of secrets, he has few Marty doesn’t know. Of cider, there’s more than enough to last til Christmas.

Rust pours Marty another glass and listens to Marty instead of the news. He makes the cider because Marty loves it. Marty’s talk about his eyes is par for the course once there’s alcohol in the picture. Rust doesn’t miss drinking like he did, but he makes the exception for holidays. But nowadays, Marty and alcohol made for statements Hallmark would reject. He didn’t get maudlin or morose as much as he got soft. Alcohol as the one grand truth serum, of that much Rust Cohle is positive.

Rust watches Marty watch television and nothing catches in Rust’s brain until some sort of commercial for volumnizing mascara makes Marty take a sip from his glass and stare at Rust with the kind of focus reserved for cases.

The television moves on to some sort of sitcom until Marty flips to The Food Network and fumbles his recipe book from the coffee table. Rust reclines back on his end of the couch until Marty pulls Rust’s feet into his lap and rubs at his arches while jotting down soup ingredients.

“You don’t gotta do that, “ Rust says.

Marty counts ingredients on the paper using the lidded end of his pen, and then runs it up the sole of Rust’s bare foot, “I know. But I like to.” He gives Rust a pointed stare, “And you like it.”

“I do, “ Rust says, and lets the tension that sits in his back like stone crumble like loose sand.

  
\-------

On December first, there’s a Christmas tree set up on the coffee table. Much as Rust looks at holidays like anthropologists look at rites and rituals of yesteryear, he doesn’t demean them. He may not see the material worship of Christmas -- he keeps quiet on the fact Coca-Cola invented the standard of Santa Claus as the figure is known -- but Marty _loves_ Christmas. Rust says nothing about the crowded streets or malls, or how things turn red, and green, and blinking on store shelves before the orange and black of Hallowe’en fades.

Christmas in twenty-twelve was one that Rust looks back on with a smile no one but Marty ever sees. Knee-deep in copycat case files, Marty went out and bought some Wal-Mart special tabletop tree with paper needle branches and maybe seven lights on a string. From the set of his jaw to the line deep between his eyes, nobody was going to separate Marty from Christmas cheer. Granted, the cheer was long in coming but Marty was ever determined to light every square inch of the house the longer their case dragged on.

Rust sees the tree, in the same spot as last year, and thinks that Marty’s attachment to Christmas on the surface is programming.

Underneath, Rust knows different.

Marty’s attachment to the season is the candle he lights against the dark.

\------

The second week of December, the air in the house is heavy with smells : cayenne, lime, cloves, bay, cinnamon. Marty perfects his chicken soup stock after cursing roundly and loudly to pots and pans and this wacky fuckin’ recipe, this shit won’t ever turn out.

Until it turns out and Marty’s smile could break his face apart. He covers the simmering pot with the lid when Rust drifts into the kitchen.

“Smells good, “ Rust says, as he reaches for a glass and fills it with water from the tap.

“It ain’t done yet, “ Marty says, his cheeks flush pink and his chin tilts up. Rust smiles, and thinks there are few joys better than seeing Marty proud of himself. Martin Hart had been a man resigned to melancholy not long ago. While Rust could accept his own faults and shortcomings, it hurt him to see Marty low. Rust could sit in the gutter, nearly made a decade of it, but the thought of Marty alone and withdrawn wasn’t something he could stand.

Rust doesn’t give thought much lately to the reasons he’s on his feet and functioning like a human being. If Marty thinks Rust’s eyes are somethin’ else, Rust won’t argue particulars.

Marty’s eyes, to Rust, are flawless. Diamonds can’t be cut to rival. Any blue stone from sapphire to lapis lazuli is dull as concrete.

Rust met those same-yet-different eyes in the parking lot of Lafayette General while Marty told him he remembered that Rust made up stories about the stars. Last Christmas found them wrapped together on the now-discarded brown couch, staring at the tabletop tree and Rust whispering soft to Marty about that night Marty carried him home. Marty, near sleep, his hands at the curve in Rust’s spine while Rust told him _I made up stories about the stars and never thought to ask you how you hung them._

Marty’s eyes opened then, bright even in the light of a single-string Christmas tree, and Marty replied _I kept one_ and touched Rust’s face, the broad sweep of a thumb under Rust’s left eye.

“Guess I get to be the guinea pig when it comes time to taste it, “ Rust says, back from his thoughts.

Marty’s mouth quirks, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Rust held up a finger, “The breadmaker, last year. You said how’s this taste the first time it looked like bread.”

“I remember that. Pencil shavings and cardboard.” Marty nods, the smile stays on, “Yeah, that one I was close to givin’ up on. Turned out though.”

Rust nods, and his hands rest at his hips, “It did. So, when’s this gonna be ready?”

Marty laughs, “Control batch. Final product comes out sometime around Christmas.”

Marty’s face is brimming with devious glee, and Rust shakes his head slow and deliberate.

“This you tellin’ me my Christmas gift in advance, Marty?” Rust says.

Marty has no secrets to keep from Rust. Not like he ever could. Anything Martin Hart ever held secret was written plain as anything across his face. There are tells in Marty’s face and in the gait of Marty’s body that Rust reads like neon signs. Marty’s telling him now without telling him that yeah, maybe, just maybe, it’s chicken soup for Christmas.

And Rust is glad for it. All the gifts Marty gives him without saying as much, he can never repay. He owes Marty a debt that seven lifetimes can’t repay. His two feet under him. All his insides more or less intact. Inside his head is less a maelstrom than he can recall in twenty-three years.

And it’s all because of Marty. Rust can’t find the way to make Marty understand that he doesn’t need to give anything anymore. Over the last year, it’s a perpetual battle and neither man seeks to concede. Marty gives because he wants to, and because he can. Rust doesn’t want him to feel obligated and when he’d told Marty as much, Marty flared up hot for a minute and told him _it ain’t obligation, Rust, it’s a little more complicated than that._

When Rust pressed as to why, Marty went pink and said nothing to elaborate. But Rust got his answer. Plain as anything. Where Marty saw complexity, Rust saw simplicity.

Love is simply complicated.

\-------

  
The house is divided come the third week of December. Marty doesn’t trespass upstairs further than their office, and Rust goes to the kitchen as far as the fridge and the table on his way to the living room. Rust is quieter than Marty’s used to, which rings alarm bells long thought dormant in Marty’s head.

Marty ventures upstairs and goes left instead of right. He knocks twice on Rust’s studio door and inside of a minute has Rust peering at him. The skin around Rust’s eyelids looks pink and irritated, as though he’d wept.

“You okay?” Marty says. Worry sits heavy on Marty, solid as the world.

“Yeah, I’m okay, “ Rust says. Marty seems satisfied but notes how pale Rust is.

“You maybe comin’ down with somethin’?” Marty says, laying the inside of his wrist to Rust’s forehead.

“I’m okay, Marty, really, “ Rust says, and touches Marty on the shoulder. A solid touch that lifts Marty’s worry like it was a feather.

Marty is back from the kitchen in eight minutes with a cup of chicken broth. Rust sniffs at it, which prompts Marty to ask, “You want me to put it in a brandy snifter, you and your nose can have at it?”

Rust sips delicately at the cup and flips Marty off with his other hand.

Marty laughs at that, the tension slaking off him, and returns the gesture, “How’s it taste?”

Rust murmurs a little into the cup as he drinks the rest so Marty doesn’t quite catch his words.

“Little more spice’d do it fine, “ Rust says.

“I ain’t puttin’ Tabasco in that pot. You can flavor it as you like, “ Marty says.

Rust pulls him in close to kiss him once, then twice, and the third time Marty nearly loses the cup over the railing.

Marty breathes while his body flushes hot in those first few movements that often signal a write-off for anything not involving a bed and a lack of clothing.  
  
He pulls back from Rust and sees him lick his lips and regard Marty with the kind of sleepy-lidded look that’d put Penthouse out of business if Marty was of the letter-writing sort.

“Not hot enough for you?” Marty says, knowing he’s loading statements and not caring.

Rust’s penchant for melancholia increases in December because the first week of January arrives too soon. Anything he can offer is Rust’s for the asking. Any bit of warmth is Rust’s for the having.

“The soup?” Rust drawls, and looks Marty up and down in a way that makes Marty daydream of carpet-burn. He’d relish the stinging up his back if only to see Rust above him, equal parts wanton and controlled.

Marty starts down the stairs, eager and sorry for the space he’s making between them, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“What’d you put in it?” Rust calls down to him, the invitation clear in his tone.

Marty stops and looks upward, at Rust and the angle of his body, at how the light above his head flares out in a corona.

“It’s a secret, “ Marty says, gladdened that Rust isn’t down so far in the dark that he can’t pull him out. He’s kept that promise, and will as long as he’s breathing.

  
\-----

Rust leans on his studio door and presses two fingers to the fluttering in his throat. There are hummingbirds roosting in the pulse points of his neck, and chest. A nest of bright-coloured vibrations ripples out in his belly. Any measure of control is for naught around Marty. Marty Hart, all at once Rust’s true strength and his one fatal weakness.

His Christmas gift to Marty would have been revealed if he’d given in. If he’d followed Marty out this door, oh he’d enjoy himself if he didn’t have a list of explanations as long as his leg.

Rust unbuttons his flannel shirt and pulls at the deep blue silk V of a slip that’s clearly not meant for a man. The silky fabric lights up his nerve endings, sends his skin tingling in something not unlike the first warmth after a deep chill. And Rust smiles. Because that’s Marty all over.

When the shirt is off and the slip tucked away -- it needs to stay in here, as the studio is the one place Marty would never trespass without permission. Rust still thinks of it as Marty’s house to the outside world despite the knowledge this is a shared and sacred space.

His pants are next.

Rust snorts into empty air and walks to the standing mirror he keeps covered with an easel cloth. He uses it for reflection, for a reference that is not Marty. The only body he’s forced to look at is his own. Marty is all he wants to see.

On closer introspection he figures he could have gone with silk boxers at this point, but daring behaviour for him now doesn’t involve drugs, gunfire and duct tape.

They’re called ‘boyshorts’ -- teal with black lace trim -- and Rust had to school his features into something that wasn’t bored indifference while buying them.

The helpful clerk at the store he’d staked out -- and this was approached with all the planning of a B & E -- gave him space and suggestions....about what his girlfriend might like.

Moreso he thinks that if he didn’t look like how Marty says he looks -- like some goddamn sculpture -- the sight of him drifting between corsets and feather boas and lacy underthings could prompt rash words and possible calls to store security.

Rust had lingered around the nightgowns for their simplicity. The robes were more to his fledgling taste, but were short to the point that he’d rather go wear one of Marty’s dress shirts and be done with it.

He files that away for reference, though.

He finds a robe. In the dim light, it’s so blue it’s nearly black. It’s the sleeves he likes. The way they drape. He mulls he’s spent too much time drawing sculptures. He puts a pin in that thought and knows he’s just been drawing Marty while he’s asleep. He could forego his plan and splurge on silk sheets. Anything he buys won’t survive the night he wears it, at least he hopes.

The brunette twenty-something with her fantastic braids and flowing skirt shadows him while fixing stands and smoothing wrinkled lines. Rust found he’d had but to nod in her direction and she was at his side, a variable calculator of sizes and textures and prices.

She hit on him at every turn, but he knows he’s a customer and it’s her job. He’d be just as comfortable yet detached like in his other life, talking to ladies selling wares of sizes and colours.

But he likes this better. There’s a refreshing lack of violence, more light, and no bruises.

He can’t find anything false in her face. He decides to trust her.

After she rings him through, he leans on the counter and does what he’s best at -- information.

Rust asks her how she does her eye makeup. He gives her a pen and a notepad dug out of box a decade old.

He folds his suit jacket and places it in the wide bag atop his purchases. He rubs a thumb and forefinger together and rolls his eyes at the lack of forethought to bring an anonymous type of shopping bag.

This doesn’t bother him like it would have last year. Little mistakes and short-sightedness courted doom years past. Now, he’s buying silk robes and lacy hotpants and kicking himself over a bag.

This, this is progress. He’s just like everyone else at the moment. Fretting over small shit.

It’s rather liberating.

\------

Marty listens to Rust’s careful footfalls above his head. Once he’s sure he’s in the clear -- this is a stumbling block forever, he thinks -- he opens the lowest cupboard by the stove and pulls a tiny velvet box the color of robin eggs, from an empty pot. Rust doesn’t look here. Rust doesn’t orbit the kitchen when it lacks Marty. He passes through it, or stops at the fridge, or the sink. But the space is Marty’s and Rust doesn’t linger if he thinks he’s in the way.

Marty’s told him as much that he’s never in the way, but he’ll have to say that til the sky comes down and even then Rust may not believe it.

His stomach coils again, different than it felt upstairs. In this one box, Marty feels he’s holding a future he could either see or destroy. The soup is part of his gift to Rust, even though they’ve said without words that they don’t need to do gifts for Christmas. One unravelling rant about rampant commercialism and the death of meaning from Rust on the way to buy a star for their one-string tree led to Marty singing _Sleigh Bells_ in Rust’s direction with light-hearted vengeance.

He squeezes the blue box, sure of its existence, and puts it back. Marty steps outside, closing the door behind him and furrows his brows in the direction of the twin maples and the expanded tree swing.

Ten minutes later, he knocks again at Rust’s door and says, “I’m just runnin’ out for some things, there anything you need?”

Rust’s reply is steady and clear, “No, thank you.”

 

Marty goes over the list in his head - chili oil, peanut sauce, rice paper, carrots, shrimp, cucumbers. Rice paper is the bane of Marty’s kitchen this week. It’s the devil’s wrapping paper, he’s all but positive. Halfway through his first package, he steps back and lets YouTube talk him through shrimp salad rolls.

Wrapping them takes all the patience and gentleness of tying a bow on a bomb. Marty could buy everything from a restaurant, but he wants to take his time.

He appreciates the change. In the summer of his life, he never bothered taking his time. Now it’s all he concerns himself with.

  
In the checkout line, a man Marty bets is mid-thirties -- jeans, obnoxious belt buckle, baseball cap, and a Mopar t-shirt -- takes the line in a literal sense, and ogles a woman three feet from Marty.

Jesus. The dude reminds Marty so much of himself that Marty doesn’t know if he wants to punch him or puke. Instead, he breathes tight through his teeth and reminds himself that he can’t hit someone for looking at someone else.

When it’s Marty’s turn at the cashier, he hoists his basket onto the conveyor and turns to the Mopar Dude.

“Hey, “ Marty says, loud enough for others to hear, “Did you forget your PIN code, man? You think it’s somewhere on that blonde lady’s skirt?”

Mopar’s face folds in on itself. Shame, Marty finds, is a great revealer.

“Fuck off, man, “ Mopar hisses, as the blonde lady who has nothing on her skirt takes notice.

She looks at Mopar with an expression Marty recognizes. His ex-wife wore the same one when she called him a coward. Rust wore it around that same time when he called Marty a moron.

The dude shrivels. Marty figures the guy’s balls are now the size of raisins, if was any change in testicular size at all. Mopar puts his empty basket on the floor and throws a gritted fuck you in Marty’s direction as he leaves.

More and more, Marty empathizes with the more misanthropic moods Rust had ten years ago.

He supposes he’s catching up, in an emotional maturity sort of sense.

  
\----------------

  
The mascara is a bust. Rust blinks at shutter-speed and can’t shake the sensation he has spiders crawling out of his eyes. He wets a cotton ball with some camomile-scented liquid and wipes the mascara from his lashes.

Rust approaches Marty’s gift as an experience rather than a thing Marty can display. Rust painted every canvas hanging in the house. Experience tells Rust there’s no way he’s giving photos of him wearing what he’s bought. Blackmail doesn’t work, and Photoshop is useful. Experience tells him Marty’d want photos no one else could look at. But why have photos when Marty has Rust?

This is the argument Rust prepares in the event Marty wants a souvenir. Rust is up for a repeat performance, but no pictures. Marty’s tactile, though. He lives through his hands. If he can’t touch it, it’s not real.

Trust is the grand currency their relationship trades in. Rust draws every sort of marbled effigy in honor of Martin Hart under the condition no one else sees it. Rust agrees. He doesn’t want anyone else to see it. The drawings aren’t even for Marty, they’re for Rust.

Marty grouses that Rust wastes paper drawing _some dude with no hair and too much belly, could just as easily draw Buddha for all the detail you put in it._

Rust draws Marty for the reasons he’s now painting his eyelids. It’s an artistic outlet. A way to experiment with himself that doesn’t run to a needle, or a collection of amphetamines.

Rust stands in front of his mirror as a blank canvas. He’ll apply all the paint and accessories he needs, and let Marty decide what to add or take away.

The eyeliner, the brushes, the eyeshadows. Even the lipstick. It’s all paint, and it all comes off.

Rust’s hands are steady with the liner pencil easy as if it were a needle, a knife, or a pistol.

He prefers brushes to pistols these days, as he’s spent too many years destroying rather than creating.  
\--------------

 

The week of Christmas has Marty’s soup in its final concoction. Marty brings some to Maggie and Ted, and Maggie phones him on the twenty-second to ask where he bought it.

Marty grins and says he made it from scratch. He thinks for a moment she’s hung up the phone, but Maggie answers him and says she’d love the recipe.

Marty says yes, and when he hangs up the phone he feels he’s done something right by her.

When Rust and Marty meet at Maggie and Ted’s for Christmas Eve dinner with Macie and Audrey, Ted asks mid-meal about the soup.  
Macie says Marty should open a restaurant, and Maggie smiles down at her plate while Audrey and Ted volley names back and forth.

Marty kiboshes every suggestion, says he’s not out of the private eye business by a damn stretch.

That, and he’s seen enough Kitchen Nightmares to warrant a need to chew several aspirin at the thought of a failing business.

Running down killers and adulterers and thieves? No sweat.

A full kitchen and a clientele and a wine list? No way.

Marty basks in the glow of the people around him, and figures he’ll stick to chicken soup.

Rust squeezes his hand under the table and Marty could float away.

\----------

  
Ten at night, Christmas Eve. Marty’s drowsing on the couch, in his flannel pants and t-shirt, halfway out of a tryptophan coma. Rust drums his fingertips to Vince Guaraldi’s _Christmastime is Here_ and slips his hand in the curve of Marty’s elbow. Marty leans over and sighs, making Rust into an angular sort of body-pillow. They shift for a minute, and then Marty settles.

“Chicken soup’s a big hit, “ Rust says. Marty feels the words with his nose pressed into Rust’s throat.

“Mmmhmm. Think I’m Ted’s new best friend now. The way he carried on, you think it was a cure-all. Maggie said the flu was kicking his ass.”

“Did she now?” Rust says, wondering if such a phrase would pass from the lips of Maggie Sawyer, or if it was Marty colorfully embellishing.

Maggie Hart told people she didn’t like exactly what was on her mind. Maggie Sawyer is springtime frost where Maggie Hart was summer heat lightning.

“Anyway, Ted’s friendlier. Which is nice. Makes seein’ the girls easier. Macie’s still apologizin’ for the time she called me Ted over the phone. Sounded like Tad, but she didn’t mean it,” Marty murmurs.

Rust kisses Marty’s temple, and listens to him breathe. Rust looks at their trooper of a tree, the tabletop wonder, and nudges one of Marty’s thighs with his knee, “Tree’s got extra lights.”

“Yeah, “ Marty says, into Rust’s shirt, “Looked kinda sad, only one set of lights.”

“You bought one set of lights for the tree, what’re all the boxes in the garage from?”

Marty lifts his head, eyes bright as any decoration, “Was kinda a surprise. Like a gift.”

Rust raises a brow, “This a two-part sort of gift? Where’s this comin’ from?”

Marty sits up and offers Rust his hand, “Turkey hits you pretty hard, I think. Here I was wondering you’d say somethin’ the minute we got back.”

He leaves Rust at the front door and scoots to the garage.

Rust takes a step back to let Marty in, but can’t take his eyes off their yard.

Marty’s extra lights are strung around the maples. As high as their tallest ladder could reach, Marty wrapped the trunks in strands of bulbs like multicolored stars. There’s a netting of lights on the swing, and there’s a bashful sort of smile on Marty’s face.

“Now this here, definitely not any sad trees here, “ Marty says. “Not like those could fit in the house, but you know, I thought...it’d be somethin’ bright. More light’s never somethin’ bad.”

Rust turns to Marty then and kisses him, soft and warm and peppery. Their noses brush, and Marty’s laugh is music, clear as bells.

“Chicken soup and shiny lights, hell, you’re the easiest person to shop for, “ Marty says, swinging an arm around Rust’s waist. They spin a little on the hardwood floor, in their socks, and Rust sighs.

His eyes are full of bright light and Marty can’t look away.

Rust pulls him in for a kiss that dwarfs the one Marty got as a thank you for the soup. The meaning is clear though.

Marty blinks and steadies himself when Rust says, “I got you something.”

“Oh?” Marty cups Rust’s elbows and looks around the living room, “This the part where I have to tear the house down findin’ it?”

Rust leans forward and kisses Marty again, and Marty’s brain turns to soft-pulled taffy.

“Oh, it’s _that_ kinda gift. Now I guess _I’m_ the easiest person to shop for, “ Marty says, the flush of his skin brightening his eyes.

“You know where I’ll be, “ Rust says, and pulls off his socks one at a time and drops them on the kitchen floor like petals off a daisy.

Rust heads to the bedroom barefoot, with the poise of a dancer.

  
It’s a full five minutes before Marty goes to shower.

\------

 

 Marty knocks twice against the bedroom door and wraps his bathtowel snug around his waist.

“You decent?” Marty calls through the door when Rust doesn’t answer right away.

It’s their old watchword. After Lisa and before Reggie Ledoux, it was a constant phrase until Rust and Marty achieved some sort of equilibrium while sharing space.

Marty found out Rust slept in the nude, so he always knocked on walls or door frames when entering rooms.

An old familiarity made new by their changed relationship.

Marty knocks again.

“Rust?”

  
The full-throated laugh that he hears can’t be Rust.

_It can’t be._

The sound covers Marty all sweet and sticky; some blend of molasses, whiskey and wood smoke. He wants to lick the sound off his fingers like tupelo honey. He needs to find the source of the sound and bathe in it like a spring.  
  
Marty steps through the doorway, and stops when he sees Rust.

Rust laughs, half-smothered in one of Marty’s pillows. Marty wishes he had a camera in hand, if only to secure evidence that yes, Rust knows how to laugh. Easier somehow to prove unicorns exist than laughter from Rust Cohle.

Marty takes in the sight on their bed -- Rust, bare-legged, curling in on himself and near suffocation with his entire face enveloped in Marty’s favorite feather pillow.

The short robe takes most of Marty’s attention, and the band of blue around Rust’s left thigh that can’t be what Marty thinks it is, because ...it can’t be.  
Rust pulls the pillow from his face and pulls air into his lungs like he never knew how to breathe proper at all.

Marty watches him stuff the pillow back behind his head, and pull at the hem of the robe. Said robe could nearly be a shirt, for all it covers. Marty glimpses an edge of black and some brighter shade of blue before Rust reclines himself against the headboard.

Marty half-turns, and opens their closet door. The sliding-mirror surface giving way to Rust’s side of the bed.

“Uh, I feel underdressed, “ Marty offers, pulling on his mainstays of baggy flannel and cotton.

He risks a peek out behind the door to see Rust tapping the fingers of both hands against the sheets in a silent concharto.

“Did I lose a bet?” Marty says, his folded bathtowel in his hands as he approaches. He puts it off to the side and sits on the broad, padded ottoman near the foot of their bed.

Rust shakes his head slow from side to side, “No.”

Marty lets the smile come free, surprised as anything at his own reaction, “Did I win a bet then?”

Rust looks at him, and Marty’s head tilts to the right. The skin around Rust’s eyes is darker, but the eyes themselves shine brighter. It occurs to Marty that if Rust could narrow the blaze of his eyes to a fine point, he’d put lasers to shame.

Marty moves to sit on the bed, just at the edge, “Well, come on over here and share the joke. Was wonderin’ what you were laughin’ about.”

Rust sits up, pulling the at the robe as it skids down one shoulder, and settles closer to Marty.

“You asked me if I was decent, “ Rust says, softly. “You agree on that?”

Marty moves further along the foot of the bed and sits cross-legged, his lap a cradle Rust rocks himself to ecstasy in. “I’ll agree you never wear much to bed, “ Marty says, deadpan.

Rust smiles at that, and Marty loses what worry he’d had that there was something he’d missed of importance.

“Your eyes are different, “ Marty says, and Rust lowers his gaze to the sheets under Marty’s hands.

Rust hears the low rhythm in Marty’s voice, and knows -- knew within the first ten seconds of Marty seeing him like this -- that he’s made a good choice.

“No different than anyone else’s, “ Rust says, with the sensation in his belly of a thousand struck matches.  
Marty snorts, “Bullshit.” He looks Rust over slow and stares long at his face. “And here I thought you were gettin’ the flu, and I was worrying.”

Rust settles on his side, his elbow sinking into the mattress and his open palm a pedestal for the artistry Marty can never stop staring at.

“I’ll agree it’s an unorthodox sort of gift, “ Rust starts, to Marty’s snickering reply.

“Unorthodox? You went out in public and bought that robe, and whatever you put on your eyes, and that’s what you call it?” Marty says.

“You don’t like it?” Rust says, looking up at the ceiling fan and then back to Marty.

“I never said that, “ Marty says, “Just wonderin’ how you always know before I do.”

“Know what?”

Marty’s exhale puffs out his cheeks, “Did we ever have a conversation while I was drunk that led you to ponder that maybe I’d like it if you wore women’s robes and eyeliner?”

Rust shrugs a shoulder and the robe slips. He doesn’t correct it.

“You told me I have nice eyes, end of November, “ Rust offers.

Marty’s mouth is a pinched line of restrained laughter, “Christ, I don’t even wanna think what’d have gone on in your head if I’d went and told you you’ve got a great ass.”

  
The expression that rolls over Rust’s face, like waves breaking, is something Marty’s only ever seen on a Christmas special.

Rust’s mouth curves like the Grinch --- right around his fabulous idea to steal Christmas.

Marty’s toes curl on their own, much like the top of the Grinch’s head. Marty surmises through a haze of sparking arousal and curiosity that he’s now carrying more wood than the tree in Times Square.

Might as well put a star on top of it as such.

  
Marty clears his throat and snags Rust’s left foot, drawing it into his lap. He rubs the arch with his thumbs just to see Rust’s eyes slide closed and his head drop back. He wants to feel Rust’s pulse jump under his tongue, but concentrates on the foot in his grasp. Marty rubs bent knuckles over the sole of Rust’s foot, watching it flex and curl, hearing Rust moan and breathe in the stillness.

Marty stops once, to twist and lean off the bed to the ottoman. He pops the lid and rummages around before removing a small, clear bottle. The air sings with eucalyptus and mint and tea as Marty pools the oil into a palm, warming it. He rubs it into Rust’s heel and between his toes, and listens to Rust like a symphony.

“You should see yourself, “ Marty says, “The picture you make.” Marty brushes light fingers over Rust’s ankle, watching him heavy-lidded and hair tousled. The band of blue around Rust’s left thigh reveals itself.

A garter, curved like wings and feathers, in deep midnight blue. Tight and stark against Rust’s skin, a cloth tattoo.

Marty roves over Rust with his eyes in place of his hands. This man in front of him, he would do anything for. This man who knows him completely, in ways he’s discovering.

“No pictures, “ Rust breathes, “No cameras.”

So Marty sets his brain to record everything in front of him, to shake that curse of not seeing.

Though he’s found Rust has done even that. All Marty sees is what’s in front of him, and it’s all he wants.

“You’re right, “ Marty says, making Rust turn his head toward him with dark, sleepy eyes.

“ ‘ Cause you’d be embarrassed, “ Rust says, “People knowin’.”

Marty shakes his head, and brings Rust’s ankle to his lips to kiss the ridge of bone right down to his toes, “No, I think ‘possessive’ is the word.”

Rust props himself up at that, eyes open and understanding.

Marty’s soft grip at his ankle slides up his calf and pulls him forward. Marty settles Rust into his lap, and pulls at the robe knot. Marty rubs his hands up Rust’s shoulders and curls his fingertips into the silk as he pulls it down, uncovering Rust like the art he is.

“I don’t want anybody seein’ you like this, “ Marty whispers, “except me.”

And Rust smiles, and his arms loop around Marty’s neck, “You think you gotta worry about me cavorting around town like some painted heathen, barkin’ at the moon?”

Marty tilts his head up, “No, no I don’t. You’re plenty good at disturbin’ the populace with other things.”

Marty chuckles, “And if you’re a heathen, then I’m definitely some sort of in-trainin’ kinda deal. The shit I end up in with you.”

Rust kisses Marty’s ear, “Sorry about that.”  
Marty tugs the robe free from between them and whistles sharp through his teeth, “Don’t you start apologizin’ for this.”

The teal and black panties have gone from mildly tight to downright vice-like. Every touch of Marty’s hands is a welcome relief. Marty rubs the silk against the curve of his cheeks and palms the length of him. Marty’s hands move to his back, sliding under and down, hooking the panties off his hips, making him hiss with relief.  
  
They land somewhere on the floor, and it’s the last sound Rust registers as Marty gets comfortable between his legs. Marty tongues at his hipbones, and the insides of his thighs.

The heat of Marty’s mouth sends Rust into voiceless surrender. Soft licks and broad swipes. Marty paints visions of ecstasy with his tongue all over Rust’s skin. Rust writhes and twists, guided by Marty’s hands. Rust rolls to his belly, pressing into the sheets, desperate for relief but for Marty’s hands holding him back. Fingers hook at the garter as Marty delves into him still with his tongue, ever hungering for every part of Rust he can get.

Rust comes with Marty’s hand tangled in his, Marty pressing a kiss onto the third finger of his left hand, and his eyes knowing and understanding with some secret even Rust can’t fathom.

There are secrets Marty can keep, and they’re all out in the open. He has to hide them in plain sight.

  
\---------------  
  
Rust wakes, feeling melted and aching in the best ways. The bedroom is dim and he has the sensation of being lifted, of being held. It’s Marty, and Rust lets himself be carried. They pass from dim light to candle light. The scents of plum and cranberry and apple. Marty’s voice that Rust feels deep in him saying he snooped.

“Found some sort of goody bag under the sink while you were dreamin’, “ Marty says. Rust murmurs nothing coherent, content to be held and to smell summer and feel Marty close.

“LUSH, huh?” Marty says, “Don’t know this kinda place existed, but this smells good.”

Rust nods against Marty’s shoulder, “Thought it’d be funny, buyin’ gifts from a place named for somethin’ you’d call an alcoholic. “ Rust blinks, the curve of Marty’s neck in his sight, coupled with a long narrow scar.

“Means other than that, though, “ Marty says, setting Rust on his feet though the other man leans on him and Marty obliges, roping him tight with his arms.

“Mmmhmm. Verdant.”

“Ten dollar words for Christmas, my favourite, “ Marty drawls, and pulls back the shower curtain.

“You ran me a bath?” Rust says, not minding at all. Marty could topple him over into the tub like he was fluff off a dandelion.

“ I did.”

“Mmm, well I bought this for you, “ Rust says, “Did a shit job of hiding it though.”

Marty kisses Rust’s cheek and whispers against it, “You bought it for me and I’m usin’ it for you. Besides, after all that in there, “ Marty waves in the direction of their bedroom, “I figured you’d like somethin’ soft and relaxin’.”

“And this has nothin’ to do with you wantin’ to fulfill some bathtub fantasy, hmm?” Rust slurs, no dryness in his tone.

“Nope. I just, y’know, wanna make you feel good.”

Rust sways on his feet in the harbor of Marty’s arms, “You do. You do.”

His eyes are clear and diamond cut when he says, “I do.”

Rust blinks as he weighs Marty’s words and tone, and he pulls Marty close.

\---------

Dreamtime. For anything else, the name is apt. Rust briefly considers spending an entire paycheck on what’s called a bath melt. He’s melting for sure, and it’s the best sort of feeling he can hardly remember having until recently.

Marty found the nail polish while cleaning up in the bedroom. He’d laughed and gone pink and finished his massage of Rust’s feet while Rust lounged in a cradle of warmth and summery smells.

Marty paints Rust’s toes a bright blue while Rust soaks. Marty blows on them, gentle as anything as they dry. He kisses each toe when it is.

“Thought about gettin’ you somethin else, “ Rust says, his voice slow and sleepy.

“Oh yeah?” Marty says.

“Somethin’ pink and silky, “ Rust says, his eyes crinkling.

“Lord, “ Marty says, “you heathen.”

  
\-------------

  
Marty lets Rust paint his fingernails. Marty says nothing when Rust colors them gold. He looks at the ceiling and feels there’s nothing else anyone could offer him that would make him forsake what he has.

Marty feels contentment for the first time in a long while.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Rust says, his head pillowed on Marty’s stomach, as their hands entwine.

Marty hums and rubs a thumb against Rust’s palm, “Nothin’. Just comfortable. For an unorthodox Christmas, I’d say it’s a winner.”

“Must be Christmas by now, “ Rust surmises, “at least three in the morning.”

Marty squeezes Rust’s hand, “I don’t know about you, but apple cider and chicken soup sound goddamn good.”

\----------

They sit on the couch tucked together in the middle. Rust thinks of the maples in the yard, all colored and lit, and how they remind him of Marty, and of himself.

Rust drowses, dreaming awake he figures this whole night. In all honesty, he feels he’s been dreaming awake since Marty brought him here. That he’d somehow died in that pit of bones and dirt and been carried out to a resting place of some sort, to live out an afterlife. That his entire life is a series of afterlives. To live as a man named Rustin Cohle, to live as a father, and to die when his baby went.

A shamble of skin and memory, living as Crash and dying as Crash, bullet-riddled and drug-damaged.

Dropped again into the world dragging the remains of Crash and Rustin like carcasses for vultures, that as long as there’s dead meat, nothing will come for his live body.

And then there was Marty. Marty, his constant. Companion, antagonist, and puzzle.

Marty, his partner then and now as ever.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” Marty says.

Rust sips his cider, feels the warmth that spreads has nothing to do with the drink, “You.”

And Marty tucks him close and Rust’s eyes fall shut and he forgets the world as it shrinks to just the man next to him.

He wakes to a velvet softness at his cheek, and blinks slow past the tiny blue box into the shine of Marty’s eyes.

“I was thinkin’ about you too, “ Marty says, “ Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is for blackeyedblonde. Because this is all her damn fault. ;-) Merry belated Christmas, dear!


End file.
